


you're one of my kind

by annejumps



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7073479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His bedroom door opens with a brief gesture of her hand. She closes it behind herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're one of my kind

**Author's Note:**

> Jean is seventeen. Pretend this is set just before the events of _X-Men: Apocalypse_.

Jean knows that a lot of the students have crushes on the professor, and she knows he knows, and that he finds it amusing. At the end of the day, however, the fluttering, blushing whirlwinds of thoughts and innocent longings are irrelevant to him and forgotten, and the less-innocent interest is something he tactfully ignores, although he finds it all flattering, in its way. Beside this knowledge, Jean places her awareness that not only does the professor go to bed alone, he's lonely then, no matter how many minds are around him.

Jean is seventeen and the professor is the only other telepath she’s ever met. He's also by far the kindest adult she's ever known. She can understand why the students are crazy about him.

The darkness enfolds her mind sometimes, especially at night, when she wishes she could sleep in peace, and she can't always tell if it's that or her treacherous body that's to blame when she wakes fitful and sweating, with a throbbing between her legs, a wetness. She's not sure which to blame when she throws the covers back one night and walks barefoot to the professor's room, shielding herself from all minds around except his as best she can. It's three in the morning.

She's touched herself before, just not since she arrived here—the last time she did, the effort to stifle herself failed and she'd had to wipe the memory from everyone on the block. She hadn’t tried it again after that. 

His bedroom door opens with a brief gesture of her hand. She closes it behind herself. He's half-sitting up in bed, looking at her, having known she was coming, and she's very conscious of her breasts, nipples tightening under the soft, thin cotton of her nightshirt. She fights the urge to cover herself with her long hair.

Jean, he says, and it's not a question, his voice low in the dark and in her mind. He's not wearing a shirt, and she peels hers off as she walks to his bed.

Jean’s touched herself, but no one else has touched her, not the way she wants to be touched right now. There's no one else she would trust.

As she climbs onto his bed, straddling his legs as he stares up at her, she holds no romantic illusions, no expectation that the professor will fall in love with her—she knows him too well, knows he’s too much like her in too many ways. Despite the lightness of his fingertips on her jaw as she bends to kiss him—she doesn’t know what else to do—she knows he harbors nothing like that for her, either, nothing more than genuine fondness. Each of them is merely the only person the other has met who is so much like themselves. 

She does know, however, now, that he thinks she’s beautiful. Everyone scorns her for her height, her pale skin, her long bright red hair. Everything that makes her strange, makes her stand out, let alone how they treated her after it became clear she was… weird. The professor, however, honestly thinks she’s beautiful, and his regard is somehow almost pure, reverent, or at least free of the slimy, fervent feel in the minds of the men who stare at her on the street, in the mall. It’s that realization that emboldens her further, to part her lips against his.

The few kisses she’d had before now have been clumsy, tentative, but his is sure and skilled. Yet he’s gentle with her, mindful of her inexperience as he slides his tongue into her mouth, his hand moving to thread his fingers through her hair. All the same, his other hand is trembling slightly as it moves slowly down her side, a thumb brushing over the swell of a breast before his fingers rest on the waistband of her underwear. Her skin ripples in goosebumps for a moment, and she feels a question from his mind to hers. Yes, she says. He pulls lightly on her lower lip in acknowledgement.

His hand moves over the curve of her waist to her front, her belly, still slow, slipping under the elastic, between the soft cotton and her skin. She’s startled by how warm he is. As his fingers touch her thatch of hair, she can’t help a whimper, her hips jerking. He pauses, waiting, and it’s as if he knew she’d eventually push herself against his fingers. As she does, she hears his intake of breath as his fingers part her folds, still careful. She’d been wondering if she should be embarrassed by how wet she is, but he huffs softly at that thought. On the contrary: he loves it. 

The fabric of her underwear keeps his hand close to her, overwhelmingly close as he rubs her clitoris with one strong finger. She clenches in little flutters on nothing, rolling her hips in brief movements, seeking something more, and just when she’s starting to gasp, frantic, he stops. Just as she manages a frustrated groan of protest, soft in her throat, he slides a finger into her, and the groan becomes a startled cry. Immediately, she rolls her hips again, and he barely needs to brush over her clitoris with his other fingers before she’s coming, harder than she ever has on her own. 

Even as she’s tender from that, she can’t keep herself from moving and chasing that feeling again, coming again around his finger as the professor cups her breast, circling her nipple with his thumb. She has to pull back, then, to gasp, and she rests her forehead against his for a moment. 

She knows, then, that he felt it as only a telepath could when she came, and had siphoned off some of that for himself to enjoy, like capturing an echo. He could send it back to her, creating a loop that feeds it back to him tenfold, but he won’t. He doesn’t want this to be about him. 

She’s surprised to learn, then, that he’s never done any of this with another telepath before. She wonders why. Are there so few of them?

He lets her discover and wonder, but doesn’t answer; instead, he moves his hand and her breath hitches as she blinks at him. The professor smiles; I’ll stop if it’s too much, he tells her, eyes almost luminous in the dark. They both know she could easily make him stop.

Don’t stop, she tells him, and closes her eyes on a gasp as he slides a second finger into her. Suddenly embarrassed even as she moans, she remembers how poorly controlled her powers are at times like these. Professor. Can people tell that I’m—

No, he soothes, working her on his fingers. You’re entirely shielded. You’re safe. She ripples around him again, and he moves her so that he can put his lips to the swell of her breasts, suck a nipple into his mouth. She cries out again at the shockwaves that sends through her, and once more as he does the same to the other; she aches as he pulls back, her nipples painfully tight as the cooler air strikes them.

Once more for me, darling, then back to bed, he says, and she’s not sure if he’s said it into her mind or whispered it aloud against her skin, because his fingers are moving with renewed assurance through her slickness, and she comes again on almost a sob, jaw and thighs trembling for some unknown reason. She can feel the sweat drying at the small of her back.

There, he murmurs. The professor cups the back of her neck to pull her forward so he can kiss her temple, and gently withdraws his fingers, waiting as her shaking subsides. Feeling better?

The fire in her has died down; what’s left is a cool blue, a calmness. Yes, professor, she says.

Back to bed, then, he reiterates, kind. On unsteady legs, she stands, and retrieves her shirt from his bedroom floor. 

As she pulls it on, the fabric cool to her sensitized skin, she knows she can’t blame this on the darkness. She wanted this, and she’d sought it from him, and he hadn’t turned her away. She’ll want it again, and she knows he’ll give it to her.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this today for [gerec](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec) and also [widgenstain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/). Thanks, gerec, for cheerleading. Heh.


End file.
